That Feeling Deep Inside
by oldmule
Summary: Set late S4. Champagne, ball gowns, black tie and Spooks.
1. Chapter 1

**My name is Old Mule and I'm an addict. It's been one day since my last story…**

 **Okay, having blagged from Aristotle and Shakespeare, my next admission is that it's now Elton John. Just listening to a song … (it'll be pretty obvious which one) and it's forced this into my head. So in order to wean me off the habit for a while here's a wee one, in 2 or 3 chapters.  
**

* * *

"Any sign Alpha One?"

"Negative."

"Alpha Two."

"Clear."

"We've been played," Harry announced.

"Looks like it." Adam muttered, taking out his earpiece.

"Question is, why?"

"You think it's a decoy?"

"Could be. Or it could just be false intel. Either way I don't like it. It gives me an uncomfortable feeling."

Harry tugged at his dickie bow, which was feeling annoyingly tight. It wasn't, he was just getting irritable.

"You and Ros get back to the grid and keep your ears open."

Adam nodded, "What about Zaf and Ruth?"

Harry glanced behind them to see Zaf charmingly proffering a tray of champagne.

"Leave him, just in case."

He searched the rest of the great hall. It dripped with decadence and money, old and new. His eyes tried to pick her out but he could not. He'd not seen her all evening.

"Where's, Ruth?"

"With the Chinese delegation, they're still in the ante room with the Foreign Secretary. Bet she's parched."

"Well, there's not a lot she can do. Leave her, at least she can manage one glass of something obscenely expensive to make some part of this bloody night worthwhile."

Harry repatriated himself to the bar intent on indulging in the oldest malt he could find.

Zaf worked the room, a sentinel, eyes and ears poised.

Ruth, finally released from translating the singularly most tedious debate about free trade and import duties, accompanied the Chinese delegation into the hall and seeing Zaf beckoned him over, relieving him of the sparkling contents of his tray.

"Anything happening?" she whispered.

He shook his head and moved on.

Harry was systematically working his way through the pleasures of the Highlands but as much as he relished the burn it hadn't relieved him of his ill humour.

A wild goose chase, loose ends and black-tie boredom. He had better things to do.

And then he looked up.

In the least well lit corner the room, near the terrace window, amidst a sea of black dinner jackets floated an image that stopped the glass at his lips, the breath in his lungs and the beat in his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

She wore a satin ball gown, in a rich sumptuous plum; its elegant folds sweeping like a wave to the floor; her shoulders shimmering with the tiny beads that decorated the see-through lace sleeves.

He was captivated. Captured. Seized and appropriated.

Moonlight streamed through the window radiating against her skin, her cheek, her neck. She shone. And when she smiled, she dazzled. She dazzled him. Like a sharp burning shaft of light that blinded him with heat and light and energy.

For twenty minutes he sat alone and stared, beyond grateful for his solitude because he was speechless. Without speech, without breath.

And then she is walking towards him and he knows he must tear himself from the sun. He swings back around to the bar and lifts his previously abandoned glass. She has a legend this evening and he won't break it.

She asks the barman for a gin and tonic and when he inquires which brand of gin, she simply smiles and says "you choose,"

"Nolet's reserve, madam, would be my suggestion."

She nods with grace.

"Good choice," says Harry, looking up at her.

"I have no doubt, " she replies, looking away, running her fingertips across the lace on the inside of her forearm, smoothing it down.

"Beautiful dress," he adds.

"Thank you," she says shyly.

He holds out his hand, "Harry…"

She takes it.

"Sarah."

"It's a pleasure to meet you Sarah."

He has not released her hand and she has not withdrawn it.

Nor has he taken his eyes from her.

"Your drink, madam."

"Thank you."

"Would you join me, Sarah?" asks Harry.

She glances, surprised at his invitation and looks back at the Chinese.

"They look happy enough," he says, without loosening his eyes from her, "and not very much seems to be happening this evening."

"You think it seems quiet?" she asks, realising this is about the operation.

"I'd say it's not quite matched up to expectations." She understands.

She nods and moves to the chair beside him.

"Apart from meeting you, of course," he adds with a smile.

"Oh, a charmer?"

He shrugs and looks slightly abashed, which makes her smile all the more.

"Are you not going to ask me if I come here often…?" she hesitates, as though his name has slipped her mind.

"Harry."

"Harry, yes,"

"I'm hopefully not quite that predictable….but seeing as you asked, do you come here often?"

She chuckles and begins to tell him about her role as a translator for the foreign office and how she has been tasked with attending upon the Chinese trade delegation. She laughs as she tells him some purely fictitious tale of misunderstandings and literal translations causing near diplomatic disaster.

And he listens wondering if she could look any more beautiful. Wondering how his mood has become consistently more dependent on her presence, both here and now and daily on the grid. Wondering how when he is lost she shines like a beacon on the bay, guiding him home.

He can't describe it …how overwhelmed he feels.

He realises that she has stopped talking.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

And he knows he is staring and that he hasn't breathed in too long.

He sucks in a lungful of air as slowly and subtly as he can.

"No, I'm not at all sure that I am," he says.

The concern spreads over her face and her hand reaches out to his arm, "Shall I get someone?"

"No point."

"You look unwell."

"I suspect I've never felt better."

She removes her hand, looking questioningly.

"Sorry, I can't begin to explain it," he offers.

"I have a colleague here from the foreign office, his name is Adam. Would you like me to find him?"

"No, thank you."

She looks caught in confusion, troubled, particularly when one of the Chinese delegation wave her over.

"Go," he says, "I'm fine. Really."

"It was nice to meet you, Harry."

She gets up,

"You too, Sarah," he takes her hand, "Maybe some other time, we might …?"

She squeezes his hand and shines those eyes and that smile upon him, "I'd like that."

He watches her walk away, the only light in the room.

Apologising to the group for her absence, a force, greater than herself, pulls her eyes back to the bar.

He is gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Ruth Evershed has no idea of the impression she has made on her boss. She has no clue.

He was maintaining her legend. He was a man, at a bar, pretending to flirt with a woman, until the whiskey, or something worse started taking its toll.

As she lies in the bath she worries about him. He doesn't sleep enough, he doesn't eat regularly, he drinks too much and if you were going to rate a job by stress levels… then, wave the white flag now.

His breathing had been ragged, his face pale and his eyes unblinking. When she questioned him, his answers were disjointed, random and senseless.

By the time she gets into bed she has convinced herself that he is imminently about to have a heart attack, at the very least.

Harry has another drink. He hasn't eaten and he can't sleep.

She has no idea of the effect she has on him. She has no idea he thinks her the most beautiful, most intelligent, most talented, most mischievous, most sincere, most caring, most impressive woman in the world.

How can he tell her that she takes the words from his lips, the breath from his lungs and the thoughts from his head. Not to mention what she does to his bloody labido. For an old man his imaginings are impressively young and vigorous.

By the time he gets into bed he has convinced himself that the only way forward is to tell her. Tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4

**So, when I said 2/3 chapters I kind of underestimated ...maybe 5/6.**

* * *

Ruth watches him from her desk. She has all day.

It is 3.30 and he is filling his glass from the decanter. Filling it too high.

She can sense the arteries hardening and the liver disintegrating even as she looks on.

Harry can sense her out there, feel her nearness. The only way he can do this is with dutch courage…the whole bloody Dutch nation's worth!

"Harry…" she is already closing the door.

"Ruth…"

"We need to talk," she says, sitting down.

He swills the whiskey back, "Indeed we do, Ruth."

They both look at each other from across his desk.

He turns to refill his glass, in need. She imagines him collapsing clutching his chest.

"Harry… please."

He puts down the empty glass and sits back down.

"I think there's something you need to tell me," she says.

So much for clueless. My god, how could he think her the smartest, most intuitive woman he has ever known and then call her clueless. She notices everything. And she has seen right through him.

"Yes," he says, "I do."

"Tell me," she says, with extraordinary gentleness.

But how can he tell her when there aren't words enough to describe the depth of what he feels, even to himself.

"You're afraid?" she prompts.

"Petrified," he sighs.

And her mind races through all the worst scenarios.

"How bad is it, Harry?'

He gazes at her, aching. All he can do is to shake his head. Speechless once more.

She bites at her lip and clenches her fists beneath the desk.

He's the one paid to make the impossible decisions. So how hard can it be to tell a woman that he loves her? He needs to man up.

"Ruth, I need to –"

"It's okay Harry. I understand. Whatever you want. I'm here."

He stares at her. Stunned. A sleepless night stressing about how he could tell her and she made it that easy.

He stands up from his seat and crosses to perch on the desk before her.

"You have no idea…" he smiles.

"I can only guess," she stands before him and takes his hands in hers, so caring, so serious, so sincere.

And her heart breaks at the thought of him suffering. At the thought of losing him.

"Dinner, Ruth. Can we have dinner?"

"Of course," she smiles, her thumbs gently stroking across his fingers.

"Tonight?" he asks with a nervous smile, "…I don't want to waste any time."

She clenches her teeth. Dear god, it is worse than she thought.

"Yes," she agrees, "Tonight."

With a tender look she unwillingly releases his hands and makes for the door.

"And Harry," she pauses, "All the things you're finding hard to say now, you can say then."

He gazes lovingly at her.

"Is that okay?" she asks.

He nods and smiles.


	5. Chapter 5

He doesn't want to overwhelm her, but …

"You look beautiful," he says.

"Thank you," she smiles and touches his shoulder briefly.

They sit down at the table.

He stares at her: why shouldn't he, she's stunning …but perhaps a little subdued.

"Is this okay?" he asks apprehensively.

She glances around the restaurant, "It's lovely, Harry."

They order, they eat, they talk. About light things, playful things, happy things.

Both are enjoying the moment, both are wonderfully content in the others company, though both are aware of the inevitable moment which is weighing upon them: for one so much more heavily than the other.

With their dessert begins the countdown.

"Harry, I think it's time you tell me all of it," she lays down her spoon.

"Are you finishing that?" he asks pointing at the remains of a crème brulee.

"No, and neither should you."

He glances down at his stomach, "Might as well, Ruth. I haven't got anything to lose."

The tears threaten to prick in her eyes and so she scratches her forehead momentarily to deflect it. He reaches over and takes the remaining spoonful and eats it with relish, almost as if it were the last thing he might ever savour.

He waits until she is looking at him once more and he leans on the table, his hands clenched before him.

"I can't remember when it started," he says softly, "but it did. And I can't stop it."

She is watching him intently and her blue eyes shine and sparkle and glisten.

"All I can tell you, Ruth, it that it overwhelms me. It's an ache, an ache, a pain in my chest and it won't leave me."

"Does it hurt, now?" she asks quietly.

He smiles a little," Yes, now more than ever."

She tells herself to breathe, to be strong. For him.

He reaches out and takes her right hand, his fingers spread, threatening to lace through hers, but holding back, teasing and then moving through, interlocking.

"Last night I couldn't sleep. Today I wanted to consume a whole bottle of scotch. Yesterday I felt like there was no breath in my body."

She stares at him.

"That's how bad it is," he smiles, "…and that's on a good day."

She can't believe how strong he is being. And she can't sit here and calmly listen to this.

But she has to.

"Harry…" is all she says. And the tear that she has promised would not fall, does.

"Ruth…?" he grips her hand, his face tender and concerned.

"I'm sorry….I …"

"Let's go."

Within a moment he is up, offering her coat, paying the bill, putting his arm around her and leading her from the restaurant. And all the support she is meant to be showing him, he is showing to her.

And her heart is breaking.

Once they are outside she inhales the cold night air and smears the track of tears from her face.

He waits and wonders if he has said too much, pushed too far, been too open.

"Can we go to yours?" she asks suddenly.

"Mine?"

She nods.

He thinks he has stopped breathing again.

This woman, this woman who constantly surprises him.

"Are you sure, Ruth?"

"Yes, Harry. I'm sure. Let's not waste anymore time."


	6. Chapter 6

He slides the keys into the lock.

Their walk back has been a silent one: too many emotions surging through them both to speak the words aloud, even into the dark night.

He closes the front door behind them and deactivates the alarm.

When he turns Ruth is there.

So very close.

Her eyes are burning, piercing, alive and desperate.

Her gloved hand climbs to his face, cradling it gently. His rises to meet it, slowly peeling away the glove: revealing her wrist and her palm and her fingers and their tips. He guides her hand back to his cheek, relinquishing it only to mirror the touch, of her face beneath his hand.

Each burns with the need to appreciate, to treasure, to remember this moment. For Harry that means forvever; for Ruth…as long as they have left.

Oh, so slowly they come together. When their lips are barely touching they delay, they relish; breath merging. Until finally, they kiss.

All that Harry has felt before, all that has overwhelmed him, is as nothing to this one sweet moment.

All the suffering that Ruth feels for him is lost in her need to know him: her desperate need not to lose him now, before they are even found.

When finally that kiss is broken their lips still stay close, unwilling to move away.

"Why didn't we do this before?" he whispers, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

She slips one hand around his waist and the other slides up his back.

"How long, Harry...How long have we got?"

His mouth caresses her cheek, "All night," be breathes.

Her hands move again around and before her, feeling for his shirt buttons, needing his skin, the warmth of his chest. She arches her neck as he lavishes it with kisses.

But when finally she finds access to heat and skin, she hesitates and worries.

"The pain ….?" She whispers as her hands begin the search, almost expectant to detect the disease.

His tongue dances around her earlobe, "Is ...Exquisite."

She can feel his heart hammering, reverberating, on the verge of exploding beneath her fingers. She pulls away from him suddenly.

"Harry, we can't. You're not …you're not up to this."

He smiles like the devil and pulls her close, pressing hard against her, "I assure you, Ruth, I am."

"No. No." She pushes him away and there are tears in her eyes, she is overwhelmed.

"I don't want to lose you, Harry."

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispers, concerned and confused, "I'm here, Ruth."

"But this can't be good for you," she exclaims.

"I beg to disagree," he tries smiling cheekily, hoping it will stave off whatever worries have found her at this most inappropriate of moments.

"Have they told you how long?" she asks, her eyes wide and bright and lonely like the moon.

"How long?"

"…You have left."

And now he just looks at her bemused and bewildered.

"To… live, Harry."


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry it's short - but it felt like it needed to stand alone. Resolution very soon.  
**

* * *

They both stare at each other: he with shock; she still with the tears caught in her eyes.

"I don't understand," he finally manages.

"You're ill."

"Not that I know of."

"You told me you were."

"No, Ruth, I did not."

"You said that it was bad, that you had nothing left to lose…."

He gazes at her.

"…The crème brulee?" he offers lamely.

"You said you were in pain and couldn't breathe, Harry!"

And now the dawning has reached full blinding flood.

"I did… I was. I meant -"

"But you're not dying?"

"No."

"And you're not ill?"

"No."

"So, intrinsically there's nothing wrong with you?!"

"Well…"

With a strength belying her size, she slaps him full across the cheek, which up until a moment before she had treasured like the most precious of things.

He takes the blow.

"You heartless bastard," she says and slams through the door.

Harry is left, leaning against the wall; shirt open, chest bare, face stinging.

But it is the pain that flares up within him that by far hurts the most.


	8. Chapter 8

Furious! Furious! Furious!

She walks past the bus stop, past the tube station, past the taxi rank.

She walks.

Simply furious.

After an hour and a half she is cold and wet and on the verge of seething.

Sitting in the bath fifteen minutes later, having rattled the glass in the front door, thrown her coat onto the kitchen tiles and nearly fallen over Fidget, she is frustrated, irritated and well and truly narked.

She splashes the water roughly over her face trying to wash away the evening.

Her skin is pink and blotchy: icy flesh thrust into steaming water; patchy, unattractive skin; skin that would have been beneath his fingers now, beneath his lips.

Angry!

Anger with herself for not seeing how she had been led. Anger at him for the lies and misdirection. Anger at the revelation of the two of them together, of how overwhelming it had been ... before he spoiled it all by being so bloody healthy! Anger at wanting him. Anger at the part of her that reacted and responded to the flare of passion she had experienced; the desire; the pleasure.

Pleasure! Pleasure at believing him half way to dead already! Well, she would be exceedingly pleased if something happened to him now! Serendipity, Harry. Serendipity.

No, unfair. Perhaps not that.

Mildly irritated.

…As she sips a cup of chamomile tea and strokes a far from repentant cat.

Upset and emotional as she lies in bed.

Alone.


	9. Chapter 9

She won't come near him.

She has barely sat at her desk all day. Forgery suite, Archive, assignations with assets: all suddenly take precedence.

When they do find themselves in the same space, even separated by his window, she avoids his gaze, makes her excuses and leaves.

She has no choice: she can't be near him.

She can't be near him because even glancing at him, she remembers them pressed against the wall in his house; she feels his breath in her ear; and she remembers the pain she felt, the overwhelming pain at the thought of being in this world without him.

A stack of files has been delivered to her desk, seeing his office empty, she sits down and begins to leaf through them.

"I need to talk to you," Harry says quietly from behind her.

"That's how this started," she hisses back, making sure the rest of the grid is out of earshot.

"I need to explain, Ruth."

"You've said enough. More than enough."

She stands up, collects the files and departs once more.

"Ruth…" he calls, frustrated.

Zaf and Jo are the only ones who turn.

Ruth does not give him a second glance.

By early evening he appears to have gone and so she finally works through the assessments that have been waiting for her all day.

At eight o'clock she comes home, turns on the kettle and feeds Fidget.

When she finally collapses onto the sofa she sees it.

A small box sitting on the coffee table.

Her anger sharply tells her exhilaration to take a running jump, but it is the calmness of her curiosity which supercedes them both.

Lifting the lid she merely finds a usb stick.

"If it's you, Harry, it's gonna take more than this …" she mutters to herself as she reaches for her laptop and opens the single file contained on the drive. It has just one message of four words.

 ** _Turn on the CD_**

With an irritated sigh at his spook games, not to mention the fact that he has been in her bloody house univited, she turns on the CD as instructed.

"Something about the way you look tonight' by Elton John blasts out.

"Oh for god's sake," she exclaims, on the verge of turning it off.

But she doesn't.

She sits back down.

 ** _I need to tell you  
How you light up every second of the day  
But in the moonlight  
You just shine like a beacon on the bay_**

 **And I can't explain**  
 **But it's something about the way you look tonight**  
 **Takes my breath away**  
 **It's that feeling I get about you, deep inside**  
 **And I can't describe**  
 **But it's something about the way you look tonight**  
 **Takes my breath away**  
 **The way you look tonight**

 **With a smile**  
 **You pull the deepest secrets from my heart**  
 **In all honesty**  
 **I'm speechless and I don't know where to start**

And she thinks back, thinks back to the look on his face, when she was Sarah and he just man at a bar.

She thinks of how he had admired her dress, how he had stared, paled and finally run out of words.

The song ends, a moment of silence. She jolts at the loud bing as an email lands in her inbox.

 ** _From: Sender Undisclosed_**

 ** _To: Ruth Evershed_**

 ** _Message: Look in your raincoat pocket_.**

As bidden she delves into the pocket. A letter.

How very old fashioned.

 ** _Ruth,_**

 ** _I am beyond sorry._**

 ** _Not for what happened but for how it happened._**

 ** _I am not sorry for kissing you, but I am truly mortified that you think me capable of leading you to that moment, in the understanding that I was not long for this world._**

 ** _I swear to you, that though there were misunderstandings, there were no lies._**

 ** _Not a one._**

 ** _I am in pain. I have an ache in my chest that rises and falls with your presence. My breath leaves me and makes me speechless._**

 ** _These are all truths._**

 ** _It is the most overwhelming and welcome hurt…. And for as long as it lasted, it was indeed exquisite._**

 ** _For my part, my misunderstanding was that I believed you had recognised my feelings and reciprocated them. I thought the reason for the strength of your emotion was because you were overwhelmed in the same way as I.  
_**

 ** _My mistake, I fear._**

 ** _Forgive me the misunderstanding and the shock and hurt I caused you. If I could take it back I would._**

 ** _Harry_**

 ** _PS You left your leather gloves behind. They are upstairs._**

She folds the letter and sits staring at it.

The email pings once more.

 ** _From: Sender Undisclosed_**

 ** _To: Ruth Evershed_**

 _ **Message: Forgiven?** _

After a long moment she types.

 ** _From: Ruth Evershed_**

 ** _To: Sender Undisclosed_**

 ** _Message: Possibly  
_**

And she smiles at Fidget.

Abandoning the pot of tea, she pours herself a celebratory glass of wine and wanders upstairs to retrieve her gloves.

Another imposition… although her annoyance is tempered now …and counterfeit.

She opens her bedroom door.

Harry is sitting in a chair by the window.

He proffers up the gloves with the hint of a smile, both hopeful, nervous and charming.

"A 'possibly' is good, Ruth ...but a 'yes' would be better."


	10. Chapter 10

**Finally hit the end of this 2/3 ...no wait, 7/8...okay then, 10 chapter very wee story! Thanks for all your reviews, reading and enjoyable comments.**

* * *

She takes the gloves from him, heart still pumping from the shock of finding him here.

And then hurls them back at him.

"You are such a bloody spook!"

He stands, picking them up from the floor where they have landed after bouncing off his chest.

"How long have you been here," she asks sternly, not wanting him to know just how she's feeling right now.

He opens his mouth to speak but she doesn't give him the chance.

"Oh, forget it, it doesn't matter," and she walks away, hopeful he will follow.

He does.

When they both reach the bottom of the stairs he passes her the gloves again.

She takes them, not looking at him, her hands turning them over and over.

"You realise when you do tell me there's something wrong with you, I'm hardly likely to believe it."

He smiles, "there'll always be something wrong with me, Ruth."

"Yes, well, that's the truest thing you've said in a while."

But he can see from her the curve of her mouth that her complaints are but faint hearted protestations.

""No, Ruth, the truest thing I've ever said …is that I love you."

The gloves become still in her hand.

"And I will say it and keep saying it until you believe me."

"I believe you," she says quietly and her eyes slide up to meet his.

He smiles.

"But if you want to keep saying it in the meantime, Harry, that's just fine."

She smiles.

"So …just so that we're absolutely free of any kind of misconceptions, Ruth, could you reiterate what you understand from this chat."

"You love me…" she says, her eyes mischievous and glowing.

He nods.

"…And you're healthy…?"

He nods once more.

" …And perfectly capable of any strenuous physical exercise?"

"More than capable, Ruth," he growls, moving to kiss her.

But she stops him.

"Wait. Just to make sure, Harry, what do you construe from this conversation?"

He gazes into her eyes, "I think… I hope, that though you have so far steadfastly avoided saying it, that …you love me?"

She nods.

"And that you're not quite ready for me to shuffle off this mortal coil yet?"

She nods once more

"And that should I kiss you now, I won't encounter thrown gloves, or a slapped face?"

She laughs a soft stunning laugh.

"No, but you might have your shirt ripped off again."

"Now that I can most definitely cope with, Ruth."


End file.
